The Black Madonna

by Davis Bunn

  “He is my stepfather.” Raphael toyed with the rim of his mug. “Other than that, everything she told you is correct.”

  So much rode on the whim of this man, it was hard to set aside her fear and see him clearly. But he held such an air of sorrow about him, she managed to say, “I’m sorry about the loss of your wife, Raphael.”

  “She was French. We met in Zaire. She was with the United Nations. I lost her in the rebellion.” He continued to address his words to the mug in his hands. “She was four months pregnant with our son.”

  Suddenly the man’s cold facade made perfect sense. “And then you retreated into your cave of dark deeds.”

  He sipped from his mug. Studied the blue horizon. “Something tells me you carry your own load of regrets.”

  Storm’s voice sounded fractured to her own ears. “Maybe someday I’ll tell you what it’s like to testify against your own father and send him to jail for sixteen years.”

  The confession left her throat raw. She instantly regretted having spoken at all. But Raphael set his mug in the holder and said to the sky beyond their plane, “My stepfather won the Nobel Prize for biochemistry. My biological father was a senior officer in the Swiss army and died in a mountain-climbing accident before I was born. My stepfather has labs at the University of Bern and in one of the pharmaceutical giants. He travels the globe, speaking with leaders and other biochemical geniuses like himself. I despise the man.”

  “Why?”

  “My sole duty in life was to worship at his feet. He never cared for me as an individual. For years I doubted whether he saw me at all. Then I began winning athletic awards. My sport was the biathlon, a combination of cross-country skiing and shooting; perhaps you have seen the combined events in the Olympics, yes? I was on the Swiss national team for three years. Then I went to Africa.”

  A light began flashing, accompanied by a soft chime. Danton swiveled his chair back behind the controls. “We must land and refuel.”

  “Where are we?”

  “Forty nautical miles from Fumicino, the main airport of Rome.”

  Storm watched as he retook control and aimed them for a rapidly expanding strip of concrete. She had never seen a plane’s descent from the cockpit. Danton handled the jet with a professional’s ease, talking with the tower, scouting for other craft, lining up behind a massive 747. The plane dropped so swiftly Storm felt her stomach rise to nudge against her heart. Raphael slipped easily into the final approach and touched down with feather-light precision.

  “That was amazing.”

  “Yes.” He taxied to a commercial hangar, waved to the attendant manning the fuel tanker, and powered down. “Things will proceed more swiftly if you do not disembark.”

  “I’m good.” Storm rose and glanced through the curtain. “And Emma is still zonked out.”

  “Would you care for a sandwich?”

  “I’ll get it.” The galley was as precisely and luxuriously fitted out as the rest of the plane. Storm remained rattled by their dual set of personal revelations. She had not spoken of her tragedy since her grandfather’s death. She returned with a plasticwrapped Limoges plate and asked, “Why did you tell me about your family?”

  Danton unwrapped the plate, then sat balling up the plastic. “I am surrounded by submissive women.”

  “Maybe because you demand it.”

  He revealed his first full smile. Of course the guy had dimples.

  Storm said, “Take off your shades.”

  “Why?” But Danton did as she asked. And revealed that the smile had touched his gaze as well. The coldness was so far gone it might as well have never existed.

  Storm said, “I understand what you’re saying.”

  “Tell me.”

  “You have made a profession of never letting anyone close. The more successful you are, the more you dislike the people who do as you say. You order them to submit, to fear you, to toady up. And then you loathe them for obeying.”

  Her words erased the smile. His gaze hollowed. For the first time, Storm felt as though she saw the real man. Raphael said, “Back in Málaga, when you spoke about your gentleman friend, I heard the love in your voice and I saw the concern on your face.”

  “Harry is in love with Emma. Not me.”

  “I heard the love. I once had friends like that. My partner in the safari business. And my wife. After she died, I joined the mercenaries fighting against . . .”

  Danton stopped. He stared out the window. But Storm knew that gaze, the sightless eyes, the vision of things beyond the here and now. She knew it all too well.

  Danton said quietly, “What does it matter? They are just names. Just another bitter little war in another sad corner of Africa.”

  The man’s expression was so raw Storm found herself willing to say, “Maybe we should just start over. Put our earlier conversations aside. We have just met on the flight from Málaga. Nothing that came before even counts.”

  He studied her. “Do you read all men so well?”

  “Hardly any. Just the few who’ve walked a path as twisted as mine.”

  “Why do—” His phone chirped. Danton checked the readout and said, “I must take this.”

  Storm took it as dismissal and slipped through the curtain. Emma watched her with a sleepy expression. “Are you two playing nice?”

  “You’d be amazed.”

  “Talk about amazing.” Emma pointed at her phone. “Harry left me a message while we were airborne. They’re a couple of hours from the Jordanian border. I tried to phone back. Got the same Arab woman who I hope was telling me to leave a message. He hasn’t called back.”

  “Can I hear what he said?”

  Emma actually blushed. “I guess so.”

  “Never mind.”

  “No. It’s okay.” She held out the phone. “You’re over eighteen.”

  “I have no interest in listening to Harry whisper—” Storm stopped because Danton called her name. “Hold that thought.”

  When she returned to the cockpit, Danton said, “I need you to go to England.”

  “All right.”

  “Now.”

  “Fine.”

  “I will deliver Agent Webb to Amman. But then I must leave for Budapest. That was my office on the phone. There’s been an emergency.”

  Emma called through the curtains, “Just get me to Jordan. I can handle things from there.”

  Storm kept her gaze upon Raphael. “Are you sure?”

  Emma no longer sounded the least bit sleepy. “It’s what I do, remember?”

  Raphael said to Storm, “I would not ask you to make this trip, except that our buyer is insisting this auction in Cirencester is extremely important. Vital.”

  “Go,” Emma said. “I’ll be fine.”

  Raphael said, “There is a BA flight to Heathrow in two hours. I have booked you a seat. Do you have money?”

  “I’m a modern girl, Raphael.” She reached beneath her seat for her purse. “I’m armed with plastic.”

  “That may not be enough in this case.” As Danton outlined what he wanted, he entered the galley and unlocked the lowest drawer. He pulled out a packet of fifty-pound notes. “Here.”

  “I still have excess funds from your initial payment I can draw down.”

  “You may not have time. Take this.” He hesitated, then added, “Please.”

  She fished a pen and notepad from her purse. “Write out a receipt. I will sign acceptance and we’re done.”

  He did as she requested. “I was not attempting to, well . . .”

  “I know. But that was business.” She stowed away the pad and pen and the money. Leaned down. Gripped the man by the neck and kissed him. “This is personal.”

  FIFTEEN

  HARRY LAY ON A PAIR of reedy mats with blankets for cushions. The mats stank of chickens. A pair of empty cages rattled against the pickup’s rear window. More mats were fastened overhead but did little to mask either the sun or the dust. The truck shimmied and moaned and bel
ched. Harry tried to recall the last time he had traveled in less luxury and came up blank.

  Hassan had arranged Harry’s transport with a Jordanian trucker who was returning empty-handed from the local border market. Miriam had offered to drop him at the arranged contact point. But she and Fareed were headed for family and the fully equipped hospitals of Amman. Harry’s journey took him elsewhere. Besides which, Harry’s danger sense continued to work overtime. A number of people knew his destination. Phone messages had been passed over the airwaves of multiple countries. If Harry was being hunted, there was both time and opportunity for watchers to have been put in place. He wanted to show up in something that would attract no attention whatsoever. If this chicken truck didn’t do the trick, nothing would.

  Harry must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew the truck was climbing a road so steep his mats began sliding back toward the tailgate. Out the back of the truck, Harry watched the plains of Moab become a river of yellow dust and shimmering heat. To either side rose the Pisgah, a range of low-slung hills that formed the natural border between the Dead Sea and the fertile Jordanian lowlands. The truck slowly climbed Mount Nebo, which rose three thousand feet above the promised land.

  They halted in the pilgrims’ parking area, surrounded by desert pines and squawking blackbirds. The driver was a squinty-eyed farmer with a beard as scraggly as Harry’s. Miriam had paid him to get Harry up to the pilgrims’ site, but Miriam was gone and it was just Harry and the driver now. The driver unloaded the wheelchair, argued with its locking system, then motioned for Harry to climb down.

  As the driver helped him ease off the tailgate and into the cracked leather seat, a car scrunched over the pavement beside the truck. Sunlight turned the car’s windows into mirrors. But as the vehicle entered the shadow of the closest bus, Harry caught a photographic flash of two hard faces and flinty eyes. Cop eyes. Or killers’. Harry figured in his case they were probably the same thing.

  The trucker proved good as his word, for he gripped the wheelchair’s handles and pushed Harry up the stone path toward the pilgrims’ church. Harry’s enjoyment of the view was severely dented by more security types. Two men in checked head-scarves and blank shades strolled the parking lot, checking tourists as they disembarked from buses. Another pair loitered by the entrance to the stone pathway. The guards flickered tight gazes his way. But the trucker pushing his wheelchair did not falter and Harry did not speak. They passed unchallenged.

  The path was lined in stone turned white by the brilliant light. Tourists and pilgrims mingled with Franciscan monks as they approached the Church of Moses. On the spot where Moses had gazed upon the promised land, a sanctuary had been erected in the second century AD. In the sixth century, the original chapel had been expanded to a basilica large enough to hold the pilgrim hordes. The original church’s three east apses and their flanking chapels had recently been excavated. Back at the Herodium dig, Harry had heard the archeologists speak in hushed tones about the astonishing mosaics. In one, a shepherd stood beneath the shade of trees no one had ever seen before. In another, a man played a lute to an ostrich and a zebra and a giraffe. What the animals signified was a mystery lost to the centuries. The old baptistery contained mosaics depicting fierce hunting scenes: a shepherd fighting a lion, a soldier fighting a lioness, and two hunters on horseback defeating a bear and a wild boar. In different circumstances, Harry would have relished giving the place a careful inspection.

  The path was steep enough for the driver to be panting hard by the time they arrived at the basilica’s entry. Another pair of security types watched as the driver shook Harry’s hand, touched his heart, and offered him a pilgrim’s salaam. Harry nodded thanks he could not afford to speak and wheeled himself inside.

  Harry followed a tourist procession through the main archway, then joined a group of local pilgrims as they halted in one of the ancient naves. Through an arrow-slit window he glimpsed the Dead Sea melting into a pale blue sky. When he figured he had given the tourist thing enough time, he turned his buggy around and went in search of some privacy.

  A line of men stood waiting at the entrance to the restroom. As Harry pushed himself out of the wheelchair, the tourists motioned him to the front of the queue. He shuffled inside, his feet slapping in the woven leather sandals. He made it into the stall, shut and locked the door, and pulled out Miriam’s parting gift. Her cell phone chirped to life and instantly signaled three messages. Harry’s breath constricted to taut puffs as Emma told him her plane was making its final approach into Amman.

  He jerked at the sound of strident Arab voices outside his stall. Three men argued loudly. Harry had no idea what they were saying. But the tension in their voices was invasive. He punched the redial button and knew he had no choice in the matter. None at all.

  Then the call was answered by the sweetest voice in the entire universe saying, “Oh, Harry.”

  He had to clench his entire body up tight. Even so, he almost lost his resolve.

  Almost. But not quite.

  He had imagined a thousand things he wanted to say to Emma. A million. But not once did he anticipate the only two words he spoke.

  When the voices rose up high enough to mask his words, Harry cupped the receiver and said, “Don’t come.”

  SIXTEEN

  EMMA WAS GLAD FOR THE curtain separating her from the cockpit, because hearing Harry actually speak to her undid her entirely.

  When she had recovered somewhat, Emma stepped into the cockpit and said, “Harry’s told me not to come to the meet.”

  “Which means he is in grave danger,” replied Raphael.

  “Yes.”

  “And you are still going.”

  She nodded. “I left my guns in Washington.”

  Raphael rose from the pilot’s seat and stepped into the narrow galley. “There is a line of taxis outside the main terminal. Private limo drivers often wait by the arrivals hall café. They are triple the cost. But the limos are faster and the drivers speak better English.”

  Raphael unlocked the galley’s lower drawer, revealing piles of various currencies and documents. He hit a latch, and a hidden compartment slid out. Inside was a pistol with a polished barrel and black matte grip. “You know this?”

  “A SIG Sauer. I don’t recognize the vintage.”

  “The SIG P210 originated in the late forties from Swiss army trials for a new military pistol.” He ratcheted the breech. “Short recoil, all steel, locked breech. This is the nine-millimeter professional version. Its most remarkable feature is the slide rails machined on the inside of the frame. The entire gun, including the single-action trigger, is solid steel forgings and then hand fitted. The results are increased durability and accuracy. It is one of the world’s most expensive mass-produced pistols.”

  “Figures.” She accepted the pistol, tested the heft, felt her hand sing. She had met master swordsmen who could lift a blade and know instantly its power and vintage. For her, the thrill had always come from guns. “Fixed sights dovetailed to the frame.”

  “They have been calibrated to three hundred meters. If you miss, Agent Webb, it is because you missed.”

  “I hold an expert qualification in small arms.”

  “Naturally.” He handed her three loaded clips. “It would be helpful if you could determine who is pestering your friend. And if the bomb attack is somehow linked to Storm’s work for me.”

  Emma slipped the gun into her purse, along with two extra clips. Then she showed him the stone gaze she reserved for special times like this. “I really appreciate the ride and the weapon, Raphael. But if you are part of Harry’s problem, I will hunt you down. Ditto if you put Storm in harm’s way. There is no place on earth you can hide.”

  A look of sadness crossed his face. “I remember once speaking those very same words.”

  SEVENTEEN

  STORM CARRIED THE FLAVOR OF Raphael’s breath all the way to London.

  She took the express train from Heathrow to Paddington s
tation, going second class with all the other normal people. From there she caught the Cotswold Express. She entered the passage between carriages and made a series of phone calls. She knew the unseen spooks might still be tracking her, and she didn’t care. She left two messages for Emma and another three on Harry’s phone. It felt better than good to know Harry was back from the dead.

  Storm remained standing in the passage between carriages. With the windows down the compartment was windy and noisy. But once they cleared London’s outskirts, the air was laden with all the scents of an English spring. The afternoon was fairly warm, but without the heavy dampness that burdened Florida in late May. Every now and then she caught a glimpse of the river Thames. The banks were draped with willows, the water dappled by sunshine and slow-moving craft.

  Her final call was to Curtis Armitage-Goode, a British dealer and longtime ally. When he heard who was on the line, he responded with equal parts joy and exasperation. “Well, all I can say is, finally. Where on earth have you been?”

  “Surviving.”

  “Have you managed to do so?”

  “Barely. Which is why I’m calling.”

  “What is that atrocious noise?”

  “I’m on a train. Between compartments. The window’s open.”

  “Be so good as to have a conductor guide you to first class so we can carry on a civilized conversation.”

  “I’m calling from here for a reason.” She cupped the receiver. “I need your help in tracking down two items.”

  “Are they in England?”

  “My source says yes.” She described the first piece.

  Curtis pondered a moment. “I might have a lead on that. What’s your offer?”

  “Standard finder’s fee. Two percent.”

  “No, no. What is your ceiling?”

  With anyone else, she would have played it cagey. Storm said carefully, “For this piece I would expect to pay a commensurate amount.”